


Beginnings

by paint_me_a_revolution



Series: Tales From the Haunted House [2]
Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Toho, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Ronan is a Disaster, Fluff, Haunted House, Maxime is a little shit, Multi, Romance, but it's awkward, seriously, they work in a haunted house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-10-21 23:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17651963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: Solène thought it was going to be just another year at the Maison Hantée. And then she met Olympe...





	1. First Meetings

     Solène loved her job. It wasn’t boring, like the secretarial job she’d worked when she was nineteen, and it wasn’t dangerous, like dancing at that seedy club in the bad part of town had been. Honestly, working at Maison Hantée was—for Solène—living the dream, despite the screaming kids and obnoxious frat boys who darkened its doorstep every night. Hell, Solène even tolerated her co-workers. _More than tolerated,_ she mused as she unlocked the back door and slipped in.

     Maxime was already there, perched on one of the countertops in the dressing room and examining himself in the mirror. He turned at the sound of the door creaking open, a delighted smile lighting up his face, and leapt up to give Solène his customary kiss on each cheek. “You’re early,” he commented, pretending to check a watch. Solène clicked her tongue at him.

     “It’s seven-thirty,” she said.

     “Mm,” Maxime hummed his agreement, “but no one else is here.” Hopping back up onto the countertop, he crossed one leg over the other and fixed Solène with a long, tired look. “Who the fuck goes to a haunted house during the day?”

     “People who want to sleep.” Solène shrugged. “It pays the bills, Max, stop complaining.”

     Max snorted. “You know, I thought I was going to be a lawyer,” he said. Solène smacked him.

     The others trickled in slowly as the clock ticked toward eight AM. Camille wandered in at seven forty-five, hair fashionably mussed, drinking from a travel mug that was comically big, even in his large hands. Lucile arrived moments later, sipping iced tea despite the chill outside. At a sensible seven fifty-five, their boss knocked on the door and tried to take a head-count, but he came up several short.

     “Where’s Ronan?” Lazare asked, glancing down at his clipboard and sounding a little bit like Solène’s fifth grade teacher. “We’re revamping his section today. He needs to be here. And where the fuck is Danton?”

     “He’ll be fashionably late,” Solène said, at the same time as Maxime said, “Why can’t you revamp _my_ section?” A moment later, Solène heard the satisfying sound of Camille’s hand on the back of Maxime’s head.

     “You are the vamp,” Lazare joked, accompanying it with one of his rare smiles. “Solène, tell your brother if he’s not here in 20 I’m closing his section for the first run.”

     “Not my problem,” she shot back, but she sent the message anyway. Ronan responded moments later with a lopsided smiley. “He’s coming.”

     “Danton’s _sick,”_ Lucile said, in the kind of tone that suggested he wasn’t sick at all. As Solène glanced over, Lucile confirmed her suspicions by with a cheerfully exaggerated pantomime of tipping back a glass.

     “I’ve got one more announcement.” Lazare ducked back through the door, and when he returned it was in the company of the most beautiful woman Solène had ever laid eyes on. She was petite, with doe-like eyes that flitted around the room and soft lips that looked like they were made for smiling. Wispy bangs curled across her forehead, so dark they looked purple. _Wait,_ Solène realised with a jolt, _it is purple._ The rest of her hair was the same colour, and fell in soft waves to her shoulders. “This is Olympe, our newest cast member.”

     Maxime nudged Solène. “Stop staring,” he whispered teasingly. “You’ll scare her off. _Ow!”_ he yelped as Solène’s foot connected with his shin. “Bitch.”

     Olympe had turned her attention to them in the scuffle. Solène felt her face heat up under that dark gaze. God, when had she become a bumbling, useless idiot? Next to her, Maxime snorted and sat back. Even Camille let out a chuckle. Solène glared at him.

     “I’m not late!” With almost divine timing, Ronan burst through the door, nearly shoving over Lazare in his rush to get inside. “Don’t fire me! I’m not late!”

     “You’re…” Lazare made a show of checking his watch. “Seventeen minutes late, Mazurier.”

     “The bus was late,” Ronan said. Under Lazare’s heavy glare, he shrank a little and squeaked, “My alarm didn’t go off?” He did a double take when his eyes landed on the new girl. “Whoa.”

     “This is Olympe.” Solène cleared her throat, wondering why it was so dry all of a sudden. “She’s new. Olympe, this is my brother.”

     “Ronan,” Ronan mumbled, sticking out his hand. He glanced awkwardly over his shoulder at Lazare, who was already creeping toward the door again. “Uh…did everyone else introduce themselves? Am I the last one?”

     “Actually, you’re the first.” Lucile stood up and crossed the room with a few easy strides. “I’m Lucile,” she said. With a fond look over her shoulder, she added, “That’s my husband, Camille.”

     Camille waved. “It’s nice to meet you,” Olympe said, smiling. She turned expectantly toward Solène’s corner. Solène swallowed hard around the eager lump in her throat.

     “I’m Solène.”

     “Maximilien.” Max leaned around Solène to offer up his hand. “But, uh, no one actually calls me that. I’m Maxime.”

     Olympe beamed and shook his hand enthusiastically. Up close, Solène could see the bright purple glint of a jewelled septum ring, and the twinkle of at least three earrings. Dark tendrils peeked out from under one sleeve. _A tattoo._ Solène’s heart dropped into her stomach. This was going to be a _long_ season.


	2. Chapter 2

     “Close your mouth,” Maxime said, chewing loudly in Solène’s ear. “You’ll catch flies.”

     She shoved him. “You’re gross, you know that?”

     “Mm.” Stuffing another large bite of lemon tart in his mouth, he added, “She’s totally catching on.”

     Solène flipped the switch on the fog machine with her foot. “What are you even _doing_ here? This isn’t your fucking room.”

     Maxime, dressed in a bloody white shirt open to his waist and tucked into smart black trousers, flung himself over Solène’s prop bed. He left a smear of coagulated blood on her pillow, which she almost chastised him for before remembering it fit right in with the rest of the set. “It _was_ my room,” he whined. “You kicked me out!”

     “You almost choked on the fog machine,” Solène pointed out. “We’ve got a show in fifteen minutes, Max. What are you _doing?”_

     Maxime turned his head just enough to fix Solène with his pleading doe eyes. “I’m _bored_ in my room,” he said. “Camille got put in the lab tonight. I’m all alone.”

     “For fuck’s—“ A knock on the door interrupted Solène. “What?”

     “It’s me.” Lazare poked his head around the door. His hair was slicked back in a neat ponytail, his neat beard powdered grey. Solène caught the bloody collar of a doctor’s coat and grinned. He started to rattle off a list of notes, and then stopped dead. “Maxime, what are you doing in here?”

     “I’m _bored,”_ Maxime repeated. Lazare’s mouth went stern.

     “Get out of here before I fucking throw you out.” Lazare stepped inside the door and held it open with an air of faux patience. “Come on.”

     Grumbling, Maxime obliged. As he left, Maxime flipped Lazare the bird behind his back and slammed the door so hard it rattled in its frame. “He’s ridiculous,” Solène sighed. “Sorry. Did you need anything?”

     “Actually, yes.” Lazare’s expression was stern, almost to the point of being intimidating, but Solène had long since stopped being afraid of him. “Olympe doesn’t have a room yet,” he said, “and I was thinking of pairing her with Ronan, but he called in.”

     Solène’s heart did a backflip and launched itself into her throat. “Yeah?”

     “I was thinking…” Lazare paused, eyes roaming over the broken table and bloody bed. “Could you use a partner?”

     Solène almost choked. “Can’t you put her with Danton?” she squeaked.

     “Danton’s in with Maxime,” Lazare explained, waving a hand dismissively. “I thought it was best for him to be supervised tonight. He’s in the Touch Room.” 

     “Is this because he grabbed a guest last time?” Solène started to protest. “It’s called the _Touch Room_ for a reason! You sign a waiver to get in!”

     “Solène,” Lazare reprimanded. “Not another word.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     Olympe was hustled in minutes later, dressed in a Victorian nightgown and fluffy slippers. Solène raised an eyebrow at the footwear, amused, and said, “Are those part of the costume?”

     “My feet were cold,” Olympe said, flushing. She seemed unwilling to make eye contact with Solène, looking at the bloody bed, the torn curtains, the bare light bulb swinging from the ceiling. “I’ll take them off before the show.”

     “You’d better.” Solène crossed her arm. “The theme for my room is vampires. Did Lazare go over any of it with you?”

     Olympe shook her head. “I got something about prostitutes from Maxime, but that didn’t sound right.”

     “That’s right.”

     Olympe made a choking sound. “I won’t…I’m not going to be a _prostitute,_ am I?”

     Solène teetered between indignation and laughter for a moment. The laughter won. “ _I’m_ the prostitute,” she explained through her giggles, “and I think…” Realisation hit her. Solène swallowed to get rid of the dry feeling in her throat. “I think you’re the young woman I’ve seduced into my bed.” God, that sounded awkward. Fucking Lazare. If Solène ever got her hands on him…

     “Your lover.” Olympe fixed Solène with those big, dark eyes. Her purple hair looked black under the dim lighting, and Solène was pretty sure she’d picked that shade of lipstick with the sole intent of torturing her. Nervously, she tugged at her skirt, trying to shimmy it down a bit. The movement drew Olympe’s eyes to her bare leg. Fantastic. Suddenly, Olympe gave Solène a wicked smile. “I think I can do that. Easy.”

     Solène melted. With a silent prayer to every god she could think of, she brushed herself off and started to set up the scene. Olympe was easy to work with, despite Solène’s hesitations, and took direction well. This was probably going to be the easiest scene she’d worked since the early days of Maison Hantée. If only she could stop being so distracted by her co-worker!

     Later, after the last guests had filtered out, Maxime draped himself over Solène’s shoulders as she unpinned her hair and said, “How’d it go?” His leering face hovered inches from hers, smug and gloating. Solène squeezed his cheeks and shoved. “Come _on!_ Tell me!”

     “Don’t you have other friends to bother?” Solène snapped. God, she wanted to tell Maxime about how Olympe had gotten into the role, about how easily they worked together, but one look at his triumphant expression had her snorting and pushing him instead. “Look, there’s Camille!”

     “Camille isn’t fun to bother about this stuff,” Maxime whined. “He just turns red and runs away.”

     Solène had to laugh at that. “You’d think,” she started, “that an engaged man would be a little less…reserved about these things.”

     Maxime shrugged. “Sex talk shuts him down. Whatever.” He sat on Solène’s makeup counter. “So…how’d it go?”

     “Get the fuck out,” Solène told him. “I’m changing.”

     Maxime glared at her like a kicked puppy all the way to the door.


	3. Conclusions

     A week went by. Despite Solène’s pleading, Lazare refused to relocate Olympe, and he wouldn’t even entertain the idea of relocating Solène. “You’re being ridiculous,” he pointed out, levelling her with a look that reminded her of her own father’s disappointed stare. “I can’t move you over a crush. We’d have to move _everyone._ We’d have to move _Maxime.”_

     A week turned into two. Ronan and Olympe hit it off immediately, which sparked an uncomfortable, searing jealousy somewhere in the pit of Solène’s stomach. Ronan got along with Olympe the same way he got along with everyone; he had a clumsy charm about him that seemed to draw people in, like moths to a very bright porch-light. Solène tried not to let it sting as she watched them sit together, Ronan’s chin on Olympe’s shoulder while they looked at something on her phone. He laughed, reached around Olympe’s curtain of hair to touch her necklace. Solène decided then and there that Ronan didn’t know what he was doing. He probably didn’t even realise he was flirting, impossible as that sounded. Yes, she thought as Olympe said something and Ronan set the necklace back with a laugh, he definitely didn’t know what he was doing.

     “You’ve _gotta_ tell her.” Maxime draped himself over Solène, sharp chin digging into the tender spot where her neck and shoulder met. “I’m going to go crazy watching you pine.”

     Solène pushed him off. “I know it’s your specialty,” she snapped crossly, “but don’t be stupid, Maxime.”

     Maxime looked only slightly offended. “I’m just saying,” he said, giving the hem of his sweatshirt an uncomfortable tug, “you’re only going to hate yourself if the season ends and you didn’t speak up.”

     Solène rolled her eyes. It pained her to admit that Maxime might be right, so she changed the subject. “I hear you’re out of the Touch Room again.”

     Maxime sat bolt upright with a startled yelp. “It wasn’t even my _fault_ this time!” he yelled. “Danton fucking tripped someone!”

     “Not on purpose!” Danton hollered from the other side of the room. Both Maxime and Solène jumped. They struggled to look innocent as Danton gathered his things and left. When he’d gone, Maxime leaned over and hissed,

     “I still think you should tell her.”

     They went out for drinks after the last show of week four. For once, Maxime kept to himself, curled up in one corner of their booth with a glass of wine. When he caught Solène staring, he stuck out his tongue at her and drained his glass. Danton was at the bar, downing shots with alarming speed, while Ronan struggled to keep up. Camille and Lucile were dead to the rest of the world, eyes locked onto each other. He whispered something that made her blush and smack his arm. Solène looked away.

     “Having fun?” Olympe slid into the empty space next to Solène, bringing with her a faint trace of floral perfume. Awkwardly, she held out a glass to Solène. “I brought you some wine. I wasn’t sure…would you like something stronger?”

“Wine is good.” Solène accepted the glass and took a sip. “It’s nice.”

     “Liar. Danton picked it.” Olympe took a sip of her own and shuddered. “I don’t know how he drinks this. It tastes like drain cleaner.” She took another sip. 

     “Had a lot of experience with drain cleaner?” Solène asked. Olympe laughed, like windchimes even in the din of the bar. “It’s probably strong,” Solène continued, leaning in to be heard. “Danton likes things that get the job done, if you know what I mean.”

     Olympe craned her neck to watch Danton pound another shot. “I can see that,” she said dryly. She winced as Ronan matched him. “Is your brother going to be okay?”

     Solène shrugged. “He’ll probably vomit in someone’s bushes on the way home and sleep it off until tomorrow afternoon.”

     Ronan wobbled a little. Olympe sucked in a breath. “You know what?” Solène amended, “I think I’ll take him home.”

     “I’ll come with you,” Olympe offered. Solène started to protest, but Olympe shook her head. “No, really. I think he’s a two person job.”

     They lured Ronan away from the bar with little fuss. He wobbled unsteadily between them, protesting weakly that he wasn’t ready to go home, but the alcohol in his system turned his body to rubber, and Solène and Olympe had little trouble dragging him away. Danton cheered as they left. Solène flipped him the bird.

     “I am _so_ drunk,” Ronan mumbled as they hit the sidewalk. “Solène, why did you let me drink so much?”

     “I didn’t let you do anything,” Solène reminded him patiently. “You always get competitive when we’re out with Danton.”

     “Mm-hmm. Stop me next time.” Ronan rolled his head a little to the left. “Solène, Olympe’s here!” 

     Solène bit back her natural sarcasm. “Yeah, she’s here.”

     “Did you…?” A worried look crossed Ronan’s face. He leaned in conspiratorially. “ _Did you tell her?”_

     “Tell me what?” Olympe asked. Solène was pretty sure her entire body went red, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair.

     “I..” she stammered. “I…” What should she say? Panic started to tangle itself around her throat, and she could feel her cheeks growing even hotter. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

     “Solène.” Ronan grabbed his sister’s sleeve, whining a little. “Solène, I’m gonna throw up.”

      _Oh, thank god._ For the first and last time in her life, Solène welcomed her brother’s poor timing. She rubbed her brother’s back soothingly, all the while avoiding Olympe’s burning gaze. With the cat out of the bag, Solène could only hope to wrestle it back in before Olympe asked any…pressing questions. “Help me get him up?” she asked. Startled, and probably more than a little disgusted, Olympe nodded. “Sorry, he’s such a lightweight.”

     “I’m not a lightweight!” Ronan argued. Solène squeezed his arm a little too tightly.

     It took a little over half an hour to wrangle Ronan into his flat, and another ten to convince him he should probably drink a glass of water and eat a piece of toast before going to bed. Olympe handled him with gentle words and soft touches, and affection swelled in Solène’s heart as she watched her brother close his eyes and lean into her touch. “You’re good at that,” she observed when Ronan had finally been put to bed. Olympe blushed faintly.

     “I used to be an au pair,” she said. “For, uh…I don’t think I can say, actually.” She laughed awkwardly. Solène joined in. They lapsed into silence, where all Solène could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

     “Look,” she started. “About what Ronan said—“

     “He was drunk,” Olympe said. She was looking intently at the floor, like she could burn a hole in Ronan’s awful carpet.

     “No,” Solène said. “He was right. I kind of…have to tell you something.” She took a deep breath. “I really…I like you a lot. And if that makes you uncomfortable, I can talk to Lazare about moving rooms. I…I could work with Maxime—“

     “Solène!”

     Solène carried on, too wrapped up in her nerves to stop. “I don’t want things to be awkward between us,” she said. “I—“

     “Solène!” Olympe exclaimed again. “Would you just _listen_ for a minute?” When Solène fell silent, she said, “I don’t think a change of rooms will be necessary. I like you, too.”

     “Oh.” As the nerves drained out of Solène’s body, she felt herself start to tremble a little. This was new territory. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

     Olympe laughed. “Clearly,” she said. “So…what are you going to do about it?”

     “I think…” Solène tapped her chin in faux-thoughtfulness. “I think I’m going to kiss you. And then…want to go back to mine?”

     Olympe’s smile lit up the darkness. “Sounds perfect.”


End file.
